THE  DEAD  MUSICIAN 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE 
DEAD   MUSICIAN 

OTHER  POEMS 


By 
CHARLES  L.  O^DONNELL,  C.  S.  C. 


NEW  YORK 

LAURENCE  J.  GOMME 
I9l6 


Copyright,  1916,  by 
LAURENCE  J.  GOMME 


For  permission  to  reprint  these  verses,  the 
author  makes  grateful  acknowledgment  to 
the  editors  of  Harper's  Magazine,  the  Atlantic 
Monthly,  the  Ave  Maria,  the  New  York  Sun, 
Lippincotf's,  the  Catholic  World,  the  In- 
dependent, the  Smart  Set,  and  Poetry:  A 
Magazine  of  Verse. 


VAIL-BALLOU     COMPANY 
•  INCHAMTON  AND  NEW  VOUK 


To 
MY  MOTHER 


2200423 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE   DEAD   MUSICIAN 3 

A  HIVE  OF  SONG 

IMMORTALITY        n 

THE   SIGN 12 

THE   EARTH-HOUR 13 

THE  POET'S  BREAD 14 

FORGIVENESS 15 

A  MARCH  EVENING 16 

O  TWILIGHT  HOUR! 17 

HARVEST-FIELDS 19 

VER 20 

DROUGHT .     .     «  »i 

A  FAREWELL 22 

THE   EARTH   MOTHER 23 

ON  A  LITTLE  BOY  WHO  DIED 24 

DANTE  TO  BEATRICE  ON  EARTH 26 

DREAMS  OF  DONEGAL 

INHERITANCE         31 

LAMENT  OF  THE  STOLEN  BRIDE 33 

THE  SPELL  OF  DONEGAL 35 

IN  EXILE 37 

A  SHRINE  OF  DONEGAL 38 

KILLYBEGS        4° 


THE  BIRD  OF  GOD 

PACK 

PREVISION 45 

RESTORATION 47 

IN  THE  NIGHT 4g 

THE  WOOF  OF  LIFE 50 

THE  WINGS  OF  REST 51 

REQUITAL         53 

ANGELS    AT    BETHLEHEM 54 

CHRISTMAS  CAROL 56 

AFTER  CHRISTMAS 57 

His  FEET 58 

THE  SON  OF  MAN 60 

THE  POOR  MAN  OF  GALILEE 61 

THE  VIRGIN  PERFECT 63 

To  ST.  JOSEPH 64 

ON  A  PICTURE  OF  THE  HOLY  FAMILY  ...  65 

THE  BAPTIST 67 

GETHSEMANE        68 

THE  MOTHERS 69 

AMONG  His  OWN 70 

PARTUS   VIRGINIS 73 

QUATRAINS 

MARTHA   AND  MARY 77 

IN  WINTER 78 

ELEVATION 79 

THE  SHAMROCK 80 

RECEPTION 81 

THE  SON  OF  GOD 82 

THE  SPENDTHRIFT 83 

Two  CHILDREN 84 


PAGE 

STARS 85 

LIFE 86 

REQUEST 87 

"  SCOURGED  AND  CROWNED  " 88 

RAIMENT 89 

AT  EMMAUS 90 

THE  NATIVITY:  A  MIRACLE  PLAY 91 

ODES 

A  HOSTING  OF  THE  GAEL 103 

INDIANA  DAY,  PANAMA-PACIFIC  INTERNATIONAL 

EXPOSITION 109 

PRELUDE  —  To    CALIFORNIA in 

ODE:  PANAMA,  THE  MASTERY  OF  MAN     .     .     .114 
POSTLUDE:   (To  INDIANA'S  POET,  JAMES  WHIT- 
COMB  RILEY) 120 


THE  DEAD  MUSICIAN 


THE  DEAD  MUSICIAN 

In   memory  of  Brother  Basil,  organist  for  half   a 
century  at  Notre  Dame. 

HE  was  the  player  and  the  played  upon, 
He  was  the  actor  and  the  acted  on, 
Artist,  and  yet  himself  a  substance  wrought ; 
God  played  on  him  as  he  upon  the  keys, 
Moving  his  soul  to  mightiest  melodies 
Of  lowly  serving,  hid  austerities, 
And  holy  thought  that  our  high  dream  out- 
tops, — 
He  was  an  organ  where  God  kept  the  stops. 

Naught,  naught 

Of  all  he  gave  us  came  so  wondrous  clear 
As  that  he  sounded  to  the  Master's  ear. 

Wedded  he  was  to  the  immortal  Three, 
Poverty,  Obedience  and  Chastity, 
And  in  a  fourth  he  found  them  all  expressed, 
For  him  all  gathered  were  in  Music's  breast, 

And  in  God's  house 
He  took  her  for  his  spouse, — 

[3  ] 


THE  DEAD  MUSICIAN 

High  union  that  the  world's  eye  never  scans 

Nor  world's  way  knows. 
Not  any  penny  of  applauding  hands 
He  caught,  nor  would  have  caught, 
Not  any  thought 
Save  to  obey 
Obedience  that  bade  him  play, 

And  for  his  bride 
To  have  none  else  beside, 
That  both  might  keep  unflecked  their  virgin 
snows. 

Yet  by  our  God's  great  law 

Such  marriage  issue  saw, 

As  they  who  cast  away  may  keep, 

Who  sow  not  reap. 

In  Chastity  entombed 

His  manhood  bloomed, 

And  children  not  of  earth 

Had  spotless  birth. 
With  might  unmortal  was  he  strong 

That  he  begot 

Of  what  was  not, 
Within  the  barren  womb  of  silence,  song. 

Yea,  many  sons  he  had 
To  make  his  sole  heart  glad  — 
[4] 


THE  DEAD  MUSICIAN 

Romping  the  boundless  meadows  of  the  air, 
Skipping  the  cloudy  hills,  and  climbing  bold 
The  heavens'  nightly  stairs  of  starry  gold, 
Nay  winning  heaven's  door 
To  mingle  evermore 
With  deathless  troops  of  angel  harmony. 
He  filled  the  house  of  God 
With  servants  at  his  nod, 
A  music-host  of  moving  pageantry, 
Lo,  this  a  priest,  and  that  an  acolyte : 
Ah,  such  we  name  aright 

Creative  art, 
To     body     forth     love     slumbering     in     the 

heart  .  .  . 
Fools,  they  who  pity  him, 

Imagine  dim 
Days  that  the  world's  glare  brightens  not. 

Until  the  seraphim 
Shake  from  their  flashing  hair 
Lightnings,  and  weave  serpents  there, 
His  days  we  reckon  fair.  .  .  . 

Yet  more  he  had  than  this; 
Lord  of  the  liberative  kiss, 
To  own,  and  yet  refrain, 
To  hold  his  hand  in  rein. 
[5  1 


THE  DEAD  MUSICIAN 

High  continence  of  his  high  power 
That  turns  from  virtue's  very  flower, 
In  loss  of  that  elected  pain 
A  greater  prize  to  gain. 
As  one  who  long  had  put  wine  by 
Would  now  himself  deny 
Water,  and  thirsting  die. 
So,  sometimes  he  was  idle  at  the  keys, 
Pale  fingers  on  the  aged  ivories ; 

Then,  like  a  prisoned  bird, 
Music  was  seen,  not  heard, 
Then  were  his  quivering  hands  most  strong 
With  blood  of  the  repressed  song, — 

A  fruitful  barrenness.     Oh,  where, 

Out  of  angelic  air, 
This  side  the  heavens'  spheres 
Such  sight  to  start  and  hinder  tears. 
Who  knows,  perhaps  while  silence  throbbed 
He  heard  the  De  Profundis  sobbed 

By  his  own  organ  at  his  bier  to-day, — 
It  is  the  saints'  anticipative  way, 
He  knew  both  hand  and  ear  were  clay. 
That  was  one  thought 
Never  is  music  wrought, 
For  silence  only  could  that  truth  convey. 

[6] 


THE  DEAD  MUSICIAN 

Widowed  of  him,  his  organ  now  is  still, 

His  music-children  fled,  their  echoing  feet  yet 

fill 

The  blue,  far  reaches  of  the  vaulted  nave, 
The  heart  that  sired  them,   pulseless  in  the 

grave. 

Only  the  song  he  made  is  hushed,  his  soul, 
Responsive  to  God's  touch,  in  His  control 
Elsewhere  shall  tune  the  termless  ecstasy 
Of  one  who  all  his  life  kept  here 

An  alien  ear, 
Homesick  for  harpings  of  eternity. 


[7] 


A  HIVE  OF  SONG 


IMMORTALITY 

I  SHALL  go  down  as  the  sun  goes 
Over  the  rim  of  the  world  — 

Will  there  be  quiet  around  me, 
As  of  sunset  banners  furled? 

I  shall  take  flight  as  a  bird  wings 

Into  the  infinite  blue  — 
What  if  my  song  come  ringing 

Down  through  the  stars  and  the  dew  ? 

I  shall  mount,  strong  as  the  promise 
Forged  in  love's  white,  first  fire  — 

A  soul  through  the  rustling  darkness 
On  pinions  of  desire. 


THE  SIGN 

Blossom   by   blossom   the  spring  begins. 

—  SWINBURNE. 

NOT  leaf  by  leaf  the  altered  woodlands  lose 
The  summer's  glory,  lingering  overlong, 

But  bird  by  bird  whose  flight  the  wood-way 

strews 
With  silence,  fallen  foliage  of  song. 

And  spring  begins  not  thus,  O  singing  mouth, 
Blossom   by   blossom,    the   trees   yet   being 

dumb, — 
But   rather  say,   when  wings  flash  from   the 

south 
Carol  by  carol  the  spring  is  come. 


THE  EARTH-HOUR 

THE   earth   was  made  in   twilight,    and   the 

hour 

Of  blending  dusk  and  dew  is  still  her  own, 
Soft  as  it  comes  with  promise  and  with  power 
Of  folded  heavens,  lately  sunset-blown. 

Then  we  who  know  the  bitter  breath  of  earth, 
Who  hold  her  every  rapture  for  a  pain, 
Yet  leave  the  travail  of  celestial  birth 
To  wipe  our  tears  upon  the  dusk  again. 

But  vain;  the  spirit  takes,  in  sovereign  mood, 
A  sure  revenge,  as  in  some  tree  apart 
A  whippoorwill  sets  trembling  all  the  wood, — 
The    silence    mends    more   quickly    than    the 
heart. 


[  13  1 


THE  POET'S  BREAD 

MORN  offers  him  her  flasked  light 
That  he  may  slake  his  thirst  of  soul, 

And  for  his  hungry  heart  will  Night 
Her  wonder-cloth  of  stars  outroll. 

However  fortune  goes  or  comes 
He  has  his  daily  certain  bread, 

Taking  the  heaven's  starry  crumbs, 
And  with  a  crust  of  sunset  fed. 


FORGIVENESS 

Now  God  be  thanked  that  roads  are  long  and 

wide, 

And  four  far  havens  in  the  scattered  sky : 
It  would  be  hard  to  meet  and  pass  you  by. 

And  God  be  praised  there  is  an  end  of  pride, 
And  pity  only  has  a  word  to  say, 
While  memory  grows  dim  as  time  grows 
gray. 

For,  God  His  word,  I  gave  my  best  to  you, 
All  that  I  had,  the  finer  and  the  sweet, 
To  make  —  a  path  for  your  unquiet  feet. 

Their    track    is    on    the    life    they    trampled 

through  ; 

Such  evil  steps  to  leave  such  hallowing. 
Now  God  be  with  them  in  their  wandering. 


A  MARCH  EVENING 

FAIL  from  the  field  the  shouts  of  play, 
While  twilight  falls  like  snow, 

And  overheard  on  their  westering  way 
The  silent  swallows  go. 

But  songs  are  brooding  in  the  hush, 
And  green  sleeps  in  the  sod, — 

Tomorrow  you  shall  hear  the  rush 
Of  life,  come  fresh  from  God. 


[  16  1 


O  TWILIGHT  HOUR! 

O   TWILIGHT  hour,   you  come  and   take  my 

heart, 
With    all    your    folded    wings    and    colors 

flown 
From     all     your     folded     flowers,     silver 

grown  — 
O  twilight  hour,  you  come  and  take  my  heart. 

Your  feet  have  trod  what  alien,  far  ways, 
On  all  the  battlefields  of  time  you  came, 
In  many  a  bower  you  fell  upon  love's  flame, 

Your  feet  have  trod  what  wonderful  sad  ways. 

Egypt  has  met  you,  and  the  crest  of  Rome 
Has  bowed  you  homage  with  a  vassal  smile, 
And   shadowy   kingdoms   of   the   dreaming 
Nile; 

Egypt  has  kissed  you,  Greece  and  faded  Rome. 


[  17  1 


O  TWILIGHT  HOUR! 

What  prayers  have  fallen  on  your  silver  ear, 
Franconian  fields  and  Frison  fiords  among; 
Bells   have   bespoke   you,    weeping   queens 
have  sung: 

The  vespers  of  the  world  is  in  your  ear. 

Contented  eyes  have  closed  in  your  embrace, 
Your    seamless    peace    has    covered    wild 

alarms  ; 
Nurse  of  deep  sleep,  the  gray  zone  of  your 

arms 

Shall    fold    the   waiting   worlds    in   last   em- 
brace. 

O  twilight  hour,  you  come  and  take  my  heart 
And  shake  my  soul  with  silent  presagings ; 
I  walk  a  lonely  road,  and  no  wind  sings, 

But   come,    O    twilight   hour,    and    take   my 
heart. 


HARVEST-FIELDS 

I  WALKED  today  through  a  clover  meadow, 
mown 

And  sweet  with  dying  bloom; 
Treading  under  my  feet  a  glory  fit  to  grace 

A  king's  way,  or  his  tomb : 
Acres  of  loveliness  laid  low,  and  dying 
Of  numberless  lives,  only  the  winds  sighing. 

And   I   thought,   as  who  does  not,   of  other 

fields, 

Flowered  with  unnumbered  dead, 
Wondering  how  those  kings,   the  flowers  of 

grass, 

Hold  up  a  regal  head, 

Plan  of  closer  cutting,  redder  harvest-making, 
All  the  world  sighing  and  its  heart  breaking. 


[  19  1 


VER 

SANDALLED  with  violets,  adown  the  breaking 

way 

She  cometh,  misty-eyed  with  hopes  of  May; 
The  changing  splendor  of  the  morning  skies 
Holds  less  of  promise  than  her  waiting  eyes. 

Across  the  black,  ploughed  fields  her  scarf  of 

rain 

In  floating  folds  enwraps  the  leaping  grain, 
While  'neath  the  velvet  press  of  her  thin  feet, 
Quickens  to  growth  the  yet  unbladed  wheat. 

And  as  she  dreameth,  down  the  blue,  far  rills 
Rise  windy  banks  of  unborn  daffodils, — 
Soft!  is  it  growing  grass  or  young  birds'  call 
Lisping  to  her,  the  Mother  of  them  all? 


[20] 


DROUGHT 

THERE  is  no  clover,  and  the  frustrate  bees, 
Abroad  upon  the  fields  and  down  the  lane, 
Through  all  the  forests  of  unflowered  trees, 
Monotonously  murmuring,  complain. 
Murmuring  monotonous,  with  wilding  wings 
That  bear  no  blossomy  burden  nightly  home, — 
For  all  their  laboring,  but  idle  things, 
But  builders  of  a  barren  honeycomb. 
Thus  is  it  now  the  summer  of  my  dreams 
When   falls  no   drop   of   rain   or   quickening 

dew; 
There  are  but  sands  where  late  were  singing 

streams, 
And   dusty  bareness  where  the  sweet  thyme 

grew: 

The  bees  of  all  my  thoughts  are  idle  long, 
There  is  no  honey  in  the  hive  of  song. 


A  FAREWELL 

FORGET  me,  and  remember  me,  O  heart ! 
Forget  me  for  the  dear  delight  of  days 
We  walked  together  down  fair,   fragrant 
ways ; 

Remember  me  for  that  I  now  depart. 

For  that  I  give  our  one  sure  hour  of  bliss 
As  venturing  a  distant  promised  peace, 
Give  joy,  for  hope  that  joy  may  ne'er  de- 
crease,— 

Reluctant  heart,  forget  me  not  for  this. 

Nay,   keep  me  in  your  fairest  thoughts,   my 

fair; 
Though  all  the  sundering  night  be  set  to 

pain, 

It  shall  be  day  when  we  two  meet  again, 
In  some  far  valley  of  the  timeless  air. 


THE  EARTH  MOTHER 

HER  lap  is  full  of  dead ;  the  tears 

Wash  down  her  graying  cheek ; 
Unto  her  riven  heart  the  years 

No  comfort  speak. 

She  holds  them  close,  the  flowers,  the  leaves, 

Her  yearly  loved  and  dead ; 
The  universal  Rachel  grieves 

Uncomforted. 


ON  A  LITTLE  BOY  WHO  DIED 

You  did  not  wait  the  spring 

For  burgeoning, 

But  ere  the  first  flowers  broke  our  sod 

You  blossomed  at  the  feet  of  God. 

I  think  there  was  that  calling  in  your  blood 

Long  months,  and  we  not  understood. 

For  I  remember,  now  that  you  are  dead, 

How  often  in  the  days  that  sped 

With  shout  and  play  about  you,  you 

Withdrew 

And  for  companion  silence  took 

With  a  still  look. 

I  noticed,  standing  by  your  side, 

Your  eyes  were  wonder-wide 

And  you  seemed  listening,  though  my  ear 

No  sound  could  hear. 

Once  on  your  quietness  I  broke ; 

As  one  that  woke 

From  strange  dreams,  awed  but  mild, 

You  caught  my  words  and  smiled ; 

[  24] 


ON  A  LITTLE  BOY  WHO  DIED 

And  though  with  ready  speech 

You  spoke,  I  knew  I  could  not  reach 

By  any  art 

The  late  far-listening  heart. 

You  were  wooed  gently,  little  one, 

Into  the  sun. 

Death  laid  aside  his  awTful  state 

Lest  you  should  fear  this  new  playmate, 

And  led  you  off  to  playgrounds  green 

Eye  hath  not  seen. 


[25  1 


DANTE  TO  BEATRICE  ON  EARTH 

IT  is  come  home  to  me  in  secret  hour  — 

O  thou  who  sharest  of  the  soul  in  me, 
And  givest  of  thyself  into  my  power 

The  very  essence  of  the  heart  of  thee, — 
We  do  in  this  commingling  but  rehearse, 

With   weary   awkwardness   of    hands   and 

feet, 
And  with  what  marrings  of  immortal  verse, 

A  life  that  love  forsworn  but  makes  com- 
plete. 
This  being  so,  O  one  of  all  my  heart, 

Witness  what  turn  of  iron  consequence 
Upon  us  comes:  the  woven  hands  must  part, 

And  right  and  left  must  be  an  exit  hence. 
Love  shall  withdraw  to  be  love  evermore, — 
Ring  down  the  curtain,  and  the  play  give  o'er. 

For  you  and  I  are  shadows  of  the  Light, 
We  are  but  echoes  of  a  perfect  Song; 

We  hold  dominion  but  as  stars,  in  night, 
Our  blended  voices,  are  they  ever  strong? 
[  26  ] 


DANTE  TO  BEATRICE  ON  EARTH 

What  shall  we  say,  whose  struggle  to  pursue 

A  valorous  role  but  bare  escapes  the  sting 
Of  shamed  surrender,  would  the  words  come 
true 

By  Babylon's  waters  should  we  try  to  sing? 
Hush,  hush,  O  heart!     The  other  side  of  sky 

There  is,  believe  it,  love,  a  wondrous  Hand 
Forever  wiping  eyes  forever  dry  ; 

There  are  no  willows  growing  in  that  land, 
And  never  shall  the  lips  of  love  be  mute, 
God  making  of  our  hearts  a  faultless  lute. 

There  have  been  lovers  since  the  stars  were 

young; 
We   come   upon   a   scene   which    time   has 

worn; 
There  have  been  who  their  souls  away  have 

flung 
And  found  them  afterward,  bruised  all  and 

torn. 

Matching  their  mortal  with  a  deathless  thing, 
The  brave  and  beauteous  spirit  they  have 

spurned, 
Risen    unchanged,    shall    they   have   heart   to 

sing, 

Burning  forever  as  on  earth  they  burned? 
[  27  1 


DANTE  TO  BEATRICE  ON  EARTH 

There  in  our  heaven  of  unsundered  bliss, 

If  any  tears  were  left  us  to  bestow, 
Should  not  the  thought  of  their  triumphless 

kiss 
Cause  the  sweet  currents  of  old  grief  to 

flow? 
Yet  though  tears  burned  the  cheeks  of  their 

despair, 
The  hand  of  God  shall  not  be  busy  there. 


[  28  1 


DREAMS  OF  DONEGAL 


INHERITANCE 

IN  Donegal,  where  old  romance  yet  blows 
O'er  hill  and  hearth,  the  children  in  the  blast 
Of  storm    hear   cries   and   clashing   arms   of 

those 
Whose   dreams  were  deeds,    in   Eire's  living 

past. 

And  looking  on  the  fields  with  clover  spread 
They    never    stop    to    pick    the   wind-stirred 

bloom ; 
Those  flowers  might  be  the  blood  their  fathers 

shed 
Now  come  to  ruddy  blossom  on  their  tomb. 

They  look  upon  the  lifted  sea  that  flows 

In    mountains   shoreward,    breaks,    and    piles 

again ; 
The  winds,  they  say,  thus  heap  a  cairn  for 

those 
Who  have  God's  acre  in  the  unmarked  main. 


INHERITANCE 

I  never  saw  the  fields  those  children  see, 
The  fog-scarfed  mountains,  nor  the  hilly  deep, 
But  share  their  every  dream  and  memory, — 
Only  the  age-long  hates  I  can  not  keep. 

For  there  they  lie,  my  fathers  and  their  foes, 
As  in  one  grave  they  wait  the  trumpet  call ; 
O'er   some   the   foam,   o'er  some   the   clover 

blows, 
The  while  they're  sleeping  long  in  Donegal. 


[  32  1 


LAMENT  OF  THE  STOLEN  BRIDE 

Faery   Child:     Come,   newly  married   bride. 
W.  B.  YEATS,  The  Land  of 
Heart's  Desire. 

Go,  thought  of  my  heart,  on  the  wings  of  the 
wind 

O'er  the  green  on  the  meadows  wide, 
By  the  deep  dark  woods,  with  the  sea  behind, 

Where  the  stars  at  anchor  ride; 
Steal  into  the  heart  of  my  old  true  love 

As  he  turns  from  the  shining  plough, 
And   tell   with    the  voice  of   the  home-come 
dove 

Of  the  hunger  that's  on  me  now. 

Ochone,  for  the  land  that  is  far  away, 
And  Shawn  of  the  stout  warm  arms; 

Oh,  better  a  world  where  the  light  is  gray 
And  night  is  thick  with  alarms, 

Than  forever  the  music's  maddening  beat 
In  the  moonlit  faery  land, 
[  33  ] 


LAMENT  OF  THE  STOLEN  BRIDE 

Than  the  ceaseless  whir  of  the  tripping  feet 
And  the  clasp  of  the  bloodless  hand. 

E'en  yet,  when  night  is  on  fire  with  stars, 

Or  dropping  the  silver  day, 
I  can  hear  the  fall  of  the  pasture  bars 

And  the  lilt  of  his  whistled  lay. 
Then    shaken    from    me    are    the    dreamers' 
charms, 

My  hand  from  the  dancers'  slips, 
And   the   mother  stands   lonely  with   empty 
arms, 

And  the  widow  with  hungering  lips. 


[  34  1 


THE  SPELL  OF  DONEGAL 

THE  hills  of  Donegal  are  green, 
And  blue  the  bending  sky, — 

For  sky  and  hills  I  have  not  seen 
The  holiest  love  have  I. 

There  was  my  father  born,  and  there 
My  mother's  cheeks  were  red, 

And  blessed  with  sacred  rite  and  prayer 
Sleep  all  my  kindred  dead. 

Across  the  fields  the  storm  clouds  sweep, 
The  screaming  sea-birds  call, 

And  waiting  mothers  watch  and  weep 
On  the  coast  of  Donegal. 

Hundreds  of  leagues  to  west  and  more 

My  own  loved  country  lies, 
And  I  must  seek  its  eastward  shore 

With  seaward  straining  eyes. 


[35] 


THE  SPELL  OF  DONEGAL 

Is  it  the  legends  of  that  isle 
That  hold  my  soul  in  thrall, 

Its  awful  splendor,  mile  on  mile, 
Where  thundering  breakers  fall? 

Is  it  a  spell  of  water-wraith 

That  thrills  me  through  and  through, 
Or  spirit  of  my  fathers'  faith 

That  springs  in  me  anew? 

The  hills  of  Donegal  are  green 

And  blue  the  sky  above, — 
For  sky  and  hills  I  have  not  seen 

I  keep  the  holiest  love. 


[36] 


IN  EXILE 

A  WIND  comes  over  my  heart,  asthore, 

With  a  shaking  of  silver  wings, 
From  the  green,  far  hills  I  shall  see  no  more, 

Where  your  morning  linnet  sings. 

There   comes   to   me   now,    like   a    flutter   of 
leaves, 

The  lilt  of  a  tune  and  the  tap  of  a  shoe, 
My  heart  at  the  memory  throbs  and  grieves, 

Oh,  the  voice  and  the  looks  of  you ! 

Over  the  wind-vexed,  sobbing  seas 
My  dream-faint  eyes  now  stray; 

I  am  borne  by  a  lilt  on  the  evening  breeze 
To  a  vanished  Patrick's  Day. 


[  37  ] 


A  SHRINE  OF  DONEGAL 

LOUGH  DERG,  Lough  Derg,  how  chant  the 
waves  along 

Thy  solemn  shores,  and  in  the  flowing  air 
Drift  murmurs  of  an  unforgotten  song 

And  of  remembered  prayer. 

A  land  of  sainted  soil  and  hallowed  sea, 
Round  no  more  sacred  isle  the  broad  tide 

rolls, 
Lough  Derg,  than  where  the  waters  compass 

thee, 
Crowned  with  thine  aureoles. 

For  thee  the  print  of  Patrick's  holy  bones 
Blesses;  and  echoes  of  the  centuries'  feet 

That  moved  along  the  penitential  stones 
In  all  thy  winds  are  sweet. 


[3M 


A  SHRINE  OF  DONEGAL 

Here  came  my  fathers  in  their  life's  high  day 
In   barefoot   sorrow,   but   God   knows   the 
whole : 

Not  for  themselves  they  fasted,  but  to  lay 
Up  riches  for  my  soul. 

Great  waters  are  between  thy  shores  and  me, 
My  feet  upon  thy  strand  may  never  stray, 

But,  O  Lough  Derg,  the  prayers  they  said  on 

thee 
Fall  on  my  need  today. 


[  39  1 


KILLYBEGS 

THE  harbor  lights  of  Killybegs 

Look  out  to  an  open  sea, 
Where  powder  and  wine  in  Spanish  kegs 

Came  over  in  'ninety-three. 

Red  Hugh  he  was  the  chieftain  bold, 

And  high  his  word  in  Spain, 
Where  never  a  don  his  beads  that  told 

But  cursed  the  English  main. 

Grandee  and  Irish  chief  were  one 

To  hate  the  apostate  foe, 
And  all  they  did  was  justly  done 

To  answer  woe  with  woe. 

For  every  Irish  lass's  eyes 
Downcast  for  English  shame, 

Beneath  the  accusing  Irish  skies 
Goes  down  an  English  name. 

[40] 


KILLYBEGS 

For  every  bairn  sadly  born, 

For  old  men  wanton  killed, 
An  English  heart  is  fitly  torn 

And  the  wild  blood  fairly  spilled. 

A  cross,  I  know,  no  sword  was  raised 

There  by  the  man  of  God, 
But  Patrick's  dead  eyes  must  have  blazed 

Under  the  outraged  sod. 

I  am  a  man  of  peaceful  palm, 

The  leaves  of  a  book  I  turn : 
Think  you  these  old  tales  leave  me  calm  ? 

I  blush,  I  weep,  I  burn. 

My  mother  was  born  in  Killybegs, 

Long  after  'ninety-three; 
And  I  bless  the  bursting  Spanish  kegs, 

The  harbor  and  the  sea. 


THE  BIRD  OF  GOD 


PREVISION 

I  CAN  not  tell  what  way  the  years  will  lead, 
How   hands   may   falter   and  how   feet   may 

bleed, 

What  deep  contentment  I  shall  have  or  need, 
I  can  not  tell. 

I  do  not  know  why  the  fleet  early  years 
Should  shake  me  with  surmise  of  future  fears ; 
Why  golden  suns  set  in  a  gloom  of  tears 
I  do  not  know. 

I  must  not  ask  of  winter  winds  that  come 
Across  the  ground  where  men  sleep  cold  and 

dumb, 

If  I  shall  rest  there  well, —  of  my  last  home 
I  must  not  ask. 


[45  ] 


PREVISION 

I  shall  not  shrink,  maybe  I  shall  not  dread, 
When  time  has  slowed  my  step  and  bowed  my 

head, 

To  go  away,  to  join  the  cloistered  dead 
I  shall  not  shrink. 

I  shall  have  hope,  in  spite  of  heavy  shame, 
Among  God's  pensioners  to  find  my  name, — 
In  Him  who  for  the  strayed  and  lost  ones 
came 

I  shall  have  hope. 


[46  1 


RESTORATION 

FROM    these    dead    leaves    the    winds    have 
caught 

And  on  the  brown  earth  fling, 
Yea,  from  their  dust,  new  hosts  shall  rise 

At  the  trumpet  call  of  Spring. 

Thus  may  the  winds  our  ashes  take, 

But  in  that  far  dusk  dim, 
When  God's  eye  hath  burnt  up  the  worlds, 

This  flesh  shall  stand  with  Him. 


[  47  1 


IN  THE  NIGHT 

THE  joyful  heart  is  slow  to  sleep, 

Repose  it  does  not  crave; 
But  weary  are  the  eyes  that  weep 

By  sick-bed  or  by  grave. 

I  lay  awake  the  livelong  night, 
By  joy  too  much  made  glad; 

But  with  the  coming  of  the  light 
I  found  my  heart  more  sad. 

The  wings  of  joy  are  light  and  fleet, 
They  pass  and  leave  no  trace; 

Deep  prints  are  marked  by  sorrow's  feet 
Upon  the  spirit's  face. 

But  God  can  fill  the  hollows  up 

With  undeparting  peace, 
And  they  who  drain  their  sorrow's  cup 

Know  pain  at  last  will  cease. 

[  48  1 


IN  THE  NIGHT 

The  joyful  heart,  so  slow  to  sleep, 
May  find  its  morning  night, — 

The  heavy  eyes  of  those  who  weep 
May  never  lose  the  light. 


[49] 


THE  WOOF  OF  LIFE 

IN  the  moth-hour's  silver  gloom 

The  Weaver  at  His  loom 
The  quiet  pattern  of  my  life  would  trace. 

The  grayness  of  the  moth 

He  wove  into  the  cloth, 

And  wrought  thereon  the   red   rose  of  your 
face. 


[so] 


THE  WINGS  OF  REST 

THE  marble  door  before  Thy  face 
What  is  it  but  a  little  dust  ? 

The  chalice,  golden,  rubied  vase, 
Will  drop  away  as  all  things  must. 

Thus  fleeting  are  the  things  of  sense, 

Thyself  alone  eternal  art; 
Not  more  the  universe  immense 

Thy  home,  than  any  human  heart. 

In  this  dim  room  the  tides  of  time 
Are  changed  and  ever  changing  still ; 

Here  while  the  hour-bells  steady  chime 
Works  out  serene  Thy  timeless  will. 

I  stand  before  Thee  but  a  space, 
If  faith  be  seeing,  sight  is  dim, — 

To  sinners  mercy  show,  Thy  face 
For  sunset  eyes  of  seraphim. 


THE  WINGS  OF  REST 

And  they,  my  friends,  who  travel  far, 
They  do  not  leave  me,  for  with  Thee 

Distance  is  not,  and  every  star 
Whirls  round  Thy  finger  ceaselessly. 


[5*3 


REQUITAL 

IF  lips  with  olden  memories 

In  heaven  are  sweet, 
Mine  shall  have  burning  ecstasies 

That  kissed  His  feet. 

If  lips  grown  gray  with  pain, 

In  heaven  are  red, 
Then  mine  shall  bloom  again, 

Of  life  here  bled. 

If  souls  earth-emptied  here, 

In  heaven  are  filled, 
O  heart,  then  let  thy  fear 

Be  stilled,  be  stilled. 


[53  1 


ANGELS  AT  BETHLEHEM 

Now  at  length  they  look  on  Him, 

Unbeginning  Awe, — 
Cherubim  and  Seraphim, — 

On  the  oaten  straw. 

Dost  thou  know,  who  dost  not  speak, 

Woman  all  benign, 
They  have  come  from  far  to  seek 

Little  Son  of  thine? 

They  have  stored  their  gold  and  myrrh 

Ages  who  shall  tell, 
Frankincense,  since  Lucifer 

Quenched  his  name  in  hell. 

Thrones  and  Dominations,  Powers, 
Trembling  on  that  doom, 

Waited  all  the  timeless  hours 
On  thy  nine  months'  womb. 

[  S4l 


ANGELS  AT  BETHLEHEM 

Michael,  Raphael,  Gabriel, 

In  the  stable  dim, 
Come  with  ox  and  ass  to  dwell, 

Serving  Elohim. 


[  55] 


CHRISTMAS  CAROL 

LAMBS  and  little  children, 

Gather  two  by  two; 
Little  Lamb  and  lowly  Child 

Here  is  laid  for  you. 
Come  to  Mary's  tender  Son, 
Worship  all,  and  one  by  one. 

Lights  are  on  His  forehead, 

Little  children,  see; 
Other  stars  shall  burn  there, 

Red  as  stars  may  be. 
Guileless  children,   for  us  plead, 
Us  for  whom  the  Lamb  must  bleed. 

Little  lambs,  all  in  a  row, 

Lay  your  faces  down 
Till  the  Lady  Mary  stoop 

And  touch  you  with  her  gown. 
Little  children,  laugh  and  nod, 
Gamboling  round  the  Lamb  of  God. 

[  56] 


AFTER  CHRISTMAS 

SNOWED  over  with  the  moonlight, 
Or  turning  back  the  noon-light, 
Down  through  the  grooves  of  space 
Earth  swung  its  old,  slow  way. 
But,  thronging  the  rim  of  heaven, 
Angels  from  morn  till  even, 
Watched  earth  with  reverent  pace 
Silent  its  orbit  trace, 
Cradle  wherein  God  lay. 


[57] 


HIS  FEET 

THE  Babe  is  sleeping  sweet, 
The  Mother  bending  low 

Above  the  folded  feet, — 

The  roads  that  they  shall  go! 

By  lake  and  little  town, 
By  heading  fields  of  corn, 

The  city,  up  and  down, 
Noon  and  night  and  morn. 

Dusk  and  dark  and  day, 

In  ministering  free, 
They  walk  the  broad  highway, 

They  tread  the  very  sea. 

Unfettered,  tireless  till  — 
With  all  their  labor  red  — 

They  climb  a  weary  hill, 
Their  work  consummated. 

[58] 


HIS  FEET 

Consummated?     Not  so, 

Those  shamed  and  shining  feet 
The  Way  forever  show, 

And  make  the  going  sweet. 


[  59  1 


THE  SON  OF  MAN 

HE  lit  the  lily's  lamp  of  snow 
And  fired  the  rose's  sunset  heart, 

He  timed  the  light's  long  ebb  and  flow 
And  drove  the  coursing  winds  apart. 

He  gathered  armfuls  of  the  dew 

And  shook  it  over  earth  again, 
He  spread  the  heaven's  cloth  of  blue 

And  topped  the  fields  with  plenteous  grain. 

He  tuned  the  stars  to  minstrelsy 
As  twilight  soft,  as  bird  song  wild, 

Who  learned  beside  His  Mother's  knee 
His  prayers  like  any  other  child. 


[  60] 


THE  POOR  MAN  OF  GALILEE 

Is  He  alone  at  birth 

Due  garb  denied, 
When  all  the  looms  of  earth 

His  power  hath  plied  ? 

Must  He  go  houseless,  too? 

Birds  are  more  blest; 
'Neath  all  the  nightly  dew 

For  Him  no  nest? 

Beg  of  the  wayside  corn 

His  daily  bread, 
The  running  stream  not  scorn 

With  stooping  head? 

Till  at  the  last  His  tree 

Should  yield  Him  all, 
Bed,  drink,  and  garment  free, 

The  Blood,  the  gall. 


6x 


THE  POOR  MAN  OF  GALILEE 

For  us  as  if  to  save 

He  is  denied, — 
Unto  the  last  He  gave, 

Lo,  hands  and  side. 


THE  VIRGIN  PERFECT 

THE  lowly  things  were  sweet  to  her, 

The  clover  and  the  dew; 
Creation  all  seemed  meet  to  her, 

Both  violet  and  rue. 

A  simple,  busy  day  was  hers 

Within  her  garden  dell; 
The  common,  even  way  was  hers, 

But  walked  uncommon  well. 

Not  that  she  heard,  but  kept  the  word, 

In  this  her  virtue  lay; 
She  slept  at  night  when  slept  the  Word, 

To  slumber  was  to  pray. 


TO  ST.  JOSEPH 

ST.  JOSEPH,  when  the  day  was  done 
And  all  your  work  put  by, 

You  saw  the  stars  come  one  by  one 
Out  in  the  violet  sky. 

You  did  not  know  the  stars  by  name, 

But  there  sat  by  your  knee 
One  who  had  made  the  light  and  flame 

And  all  things  bright  that  be. 

You  heard  with  Him  birds  in  the  tree 
Twitter    "  Good-night  "    o'erhead, — 

The  Maker  of  the  world  must  see 
His  little  ones  to  bed. 

Then  when  the  darkness  settled  round, 
To  Him  your  prayers  were  said; 

No  wonder  that  your  sleep  was  ground 
The  angels  loved  to  tread. 

1  64  ] 


ON  A  PICTURE  OF  THE  HOLY 
FAMILY 

ONE,  His  very  Mother,  she 
Holds  the  Child  upon  her  knee, — 
Him,  the  Second  of  the  Three. 

Unbegot  ere  time  began, 
Truly  God  and  truly  Man, 
Infinite  in  finite  span. 

One,  with  lilies  in  his  hand, 
By  the  two  is  seen  to  stand, — 
Was  there  ever  aught  so  grand ! 

Thus,  when  Joseph's  work  was  done, 
Sat  the  Mother  and  the  Son, — 
Unity  and  three  in  one. 

Joseph's  house  is  surely  blest, 
Harboring  such  wondrous  Guest, — 
Oh,  but  what  of  Mary's  breast! 
[  65  ] 


PICTURE  OF  THE  HOLY  FAMILY 

What  of  her  whose  heart  supplied 
To  His  veins  their  crimson  tide, — 
Word  made  Flesh  within  her  side ! 

Draw  the  veil  of  heaven  and  see 
Where  in  heaven's  height  is  she, — 
Nearest  to  the  Trinity. 

And  beside  her  very  nigh, 
On  the  other  side  of  sky, 
Joseph  sure  is  standing  by. 

Christ,  as  though  the  Trinity 
Were  not  home  enough  for  Thee, 
Ye  are  still  a  family. 


[66] 


THE  BAPTIST 

LEAPING  for  joy  ere  birth, 
Shalt  have  scant  joy  of  earth ; 
A  dying  life  soon  dies, 
Thy  head  a  strumpet's  prize. 
And  yet  above  thy  bier 
An  epitaph  dost  hear 
That  makes  thy  dead  heart  leap 
With  joy,  all  its  long  sleep. 
What  was  the  Poet's  word 
Thy   lonely  spirit  stirred  ?  — 
Hush,  hymns  of  night  and  morn : 
"Holiest  of  woman  born." 


GETHSEMANE 

HE  entereth  the  Garden,  lonely, — 

Follow  Him,  O  my  soul! 
He  falleth,  and  lieth  pronely,  — 

Down  on  thy  face,  my  soul ! 
Angels  are  all  anear  Him, 

Yet  is  He  lone,  my  soul; 
Demons  no  longer  fear  Him, — 

Lo,  how  the  red  streams  roll! 
Only  thy  love  can  cheer  Him: 

Tell  Him  I  love  Him,  my  soul. 

Into  the  deep  hell  with  Him, 

Follow  Him,  O  my  soul ! 
Horrors  no  words  tell,  with  Him 

Drink  of  them  deep,  my  soul. 
Challenge  the  worlds  for  sorrow, 

Shoulder  the  weight,  my  soul  ; 
Woes  of  the  ages  borrow, 

Take  of  all  suffering  toll: 
Think  not  of  rest  to-morrow; 
Bleed  with  Him,  O  my  soul! 
[  68  ] 


THE  MOTHERS 

THREE  mothers  met  that  woeful  day; 
One  as  her  dead  Son  pale,  one  gray 
With  grieving,  and  one  red  with  shame: 
All  called  upon  one  blessed  Name. 

One  from  the  sorrow  of  the  Cross, 
One  by  the  woe  of  kindred  loss, 
And  one  cried  out  in  agony 
From  shadow  of  a  blacker  tree. 

One  gave  the  Nazarean  birth, 

One  brought  the  pardoned  thief  to  earth, 

While  of  that  hopeless  one  begot 

Was  Judas  the  Iscariot. 


AMONG  HIS  OWN 

(In  a  Children's  Chapel.) 

HE  lives  among  His  own,  the  children's  God: 
Above  and  by  and  round  Him  hourly  pass 
Their  hurrying  feet;  down  hall  or  stairs,  a 

pause, 

And  in  the  hush  outside  a  knee  is  bent 
In  silent  adoration  of  the  Guest. 
The  Guest  ?  Ah,  no !  The  very  Host  is  He, 
And  they  the  dwellers  in  His  mansioned  Heart. 
For  them  the  day  is  full  of  work  and  play, 
Of  ringing  sounds,  of  mirth  and  little  griefs 
That  brim  a  little  soul ;  and  they  forget 
The  awful  Presence,  as  the  child  forgets 
His  mother,  when  the  day  is  very  full, — 
Forgets  her  in  the  mind,  not  in  the  will. 
For  though  they  come  and  go,  and  laugh  and 

shout, 

At  nightfall,  when  the  spirit's  eyes  are  wide, 
And  conscience  looks  across  the  vanished  hours, 
They  find,  what  all  the  day  contented  Him, 
[  70] 


AMONG  HIS  OfFN 

They  have  not  left  the  path  He'd  have  them 

tread ; 
His  arms  were  'neath  them,  and  His  voice  was 

heard 

In  all  the  secret  councils  of  their  deeds. 
And  when  they  fall  asleep  they  hold  His  hand. 


PARTUS  VIRGINIS 

HIM  whom,  as  mothers  use, 

I  bosomed  full  tide, 
I  bore,  King  of  the  Jews, 

And  God,  beside. 

They  speak  of  star  and  kings, 
Wondrous  in  Bethlehem, 

And  angels  with  great  wings,- 
Enough,  of  them. 

What  should  my  thoughts  do 
Since  the  March  weather, 

And  first  God  and  I  drew 
Breath  together? 

What  should  I  think  upon, 

Day  or  night  tide, 
Since  Elizabeth's  son 

Knew,  in  her  side, — 

[  72] 


PARTUS  VIRGINIS 

But  the  coming  of  Another, 

On  His  shoeless  feet, 
I,  the  budding  earth,  His  Mother, 

And  my  breast  spring-sweet? 

Was  it  night  or  day  breaking? 

Little  I  could  spin, 
Who  knew  my  veins  making 

Robe  He  should  die  in. 

Nazareth,  or  David's  town, 

It  was  equal  to  me ; 
Straw,  or  eiderdown, 

Shepherds,  royalty. 

There  were  only  He  and  I, 

Within,  without  me, 
All  the  still  sky 

Folded  about  me. 

He  came :  we  two  apart ; 

And  I  thought  Him  dead 
Till  He  wailed,  when  my  heart 

Broke,  and  joy  bled. 


[73 


QUATRAINS 


MARTHA  AND  MARY 

WHEN  Light  is  dead,  the  busied  Day 
Folds  weary  hands  and  glides  away; 
While  Night  outspreads  her  starry  hair 
Upon  His  grave,  and  worships  there. 


[  77  1 


IN  WINTER 

LIKE  ghosts  of  birds,  the  flocking  flakes 
Amid  the  leafless  branches  fly, — 

But  ah,  the  songs,  what  power  remakes 
Of  silence  vanished  minstrelsy? 


ELEVATION 

THRONED  in  His  Mother's  arms, 
Christ  rests  in  slumber  sweet ; 

Except  at  God's  right  hand, 
For  Him  no  higher  seat. 


[  79  ] 


THE  SHAMROCK 

SPRUNG  from  a  vanished  hour 
Of  sun  and  shower, 

You  bore  a  people's  faith, 
A  fadeless  flower. 


[80] 


RECEPTION 

A  MAGDALEN,  the  scarlet  Day, 
Knocked  at  Eve's  convent  bars ; 

Comes  Twilight,  penitent  in  gray, 
Telling  her  beads,  the  stars. 


THE  SON  OF  GOD 

THE  fount  of  Mary's  joy 
Revealed  now  lies, 

For,  lo,  has  not  the  Boy 
His  Father's  eyes? 


[82] 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

WITH  grasping  hand  and  heart  of  strife 
He  seeks  the  fame  that  briefly  lingers, 

And  all  the  while  the  gold  prize,  life, 
Is  slipping  through  his  heedless  fingers. 


TWO  CHILDREN 

NAMES  do  but  mock  you  while  they  greet; 

Sweetness  and  light  you  are  — 
The  light  beyond  all  saying  sweet, 

The  sweetness  like  a  star. 


[  84] 


STARS 

THE  foolish  virgins  ye,  your  lamps 
Through  all  the  waiting  night  ye  trim, 

But  when  the  bridegroom  Morn  is  nigh 
Ye  wither  at  the  kiss  of  him. 


LIFE 

ONLY  one  springtime  for  the  sowing, 
And  one  brief  summer  for  the  growing; 
Only  one  autumn  for  the  reaping 
Of  harvest  for  the  winter's  keeping. 


REQUEST 

LAY  lilies  on  dead  innocence, 
Strew  roses  on  the  bier  of  love, 

But  let  my  grave  of  penitence 
Be  sweet  with  violets  above. 


[  87] 


"  SCOURGED  AND  CROWNED  " 

A  REGAL  sequence  see: 
Him  whom  His  subjects  loathed, — 
Before  He  crowned  should  be  — 
They  first  with  Purple  clothed. 


RAIMENT 

THE  seamless  cloak  He  wore 
They  kept,  nor  broke  a  thread: 

His  garb  of  flesh  they  tore 
As  if  from  shred  to  shred. 


AT  EMMAUS 

THEY  knew  Him  when  He  broke  the  bread: 
Was't  by  the  accompanying  word  He  said 
Which  faith,  though  faltering,  understands, 
Or  wounded  beauty  of  His  hands? 


[  90] 


THE  NATIVITY 

A   MIRACLE    PLAY 
PERSONS 

THE  HOLY  FAMILY 
MATTHIAS  REBECCA 

THEIR  INFANT  SON 
SHEPHERDS  ANGELS 

SCENE  I 

Bethlehem,  the  night  of  Christ's  birth.  Early 
evening,  near  the  house  of  Matthias.  Enter 
Joseph,  leading  an  ass  upon  which  the  Virgin 
Mary  is  seated. 

JOSEPH. 

A  wind  hath  blown  the  heavens  into  flame 
About  us ;  earth  is  silver  to  our  feet. 
By  night,  by  day,  God's  hand  hath  guided  us, 
Pillar  and  cloud  His  firmament  hath  been 
To  bring  us  hither ;  this  should  be  the  town 
Of  David,  city  of  our  sire. 


THE  NATIVITY 

MARY. 

Even  so. 
JOSEPH. 

Here  where  the  unknowing  workman  left  an 

arch 

In  the  broad  wall  we  pass ;  thus  Israel's  God 
Comes  stooping  to  His  own. 

MARY. 

Whereto  He  leads 
We  can  but  follow  now  as  ever,  yet 
Methinks  I  hear,  over  the  din  of  song 
That  beat  about  our  temples  all  the  way, 
The  night-song  of  a  mother  for  her  babe. 
Hark! 

(Crooning  on  the  wind.) 

Baby,  sleep,  my  child ; 

Deep  the  night  hangs  o'er  thee. 

High  the  wind  and  wild; 

Dreaming  is  before  thee. 

Come,  come  the  happy  slumber ; 

Bright  dreams  be  thine  in  number. 

Ah,  baby,  on  thy  mother's  breast 

Is  sleep  for  thee,  for  thee  is  rest. 
[  92  ] 


THE  NATIVITY 

JOSEPH. 

Let  us  approach ;  the  inn  mayhap  is  far 
And  crowded  by  the  mandates  of  our  king. 
(He  knocks  at  the  door  of  the  house.) 

MATTHIAS. 

(Within.)     Who  is  it  starts  the  peacefulness 

of  night 
With  clamorous  knocking? 

JOSEPH. 

Two  of  David's  house 

Come  far,  and  weary;  may  we  lodge  to-night 
Beside  thy  hearth? 

MATTHIAS. 

Mine  house  is  all  too  strait 
For  mine  own  household.     (Opens  the  door.) 
Beggars  and  their  beast, 
Begone. 

REBECCA. 

Hush ;  houseless,  in  the  night,  with  child. 
Surely  some  room  can  still  be  made 

[93  1 


THE  NATIVITY 

MATTHIAS. 

But  no, 
We  are  too  poor.     (To  Joseph.}     The  inn  is 

farther  down 
The  road.     (Looks  at  Mary.)     And  yet  — 

and  yet 

Good  night. 

(Mary  and  Joseph  turn  sorrowfully  away.) 

MARY. 
(Looks  at  Rebecca.)  Good  night. 

REBECCA. 

Houseless,  with  child  —  O  husband,  call  them 
back. 

MATTHIAS. 
Peace,  they  will  elsewhere  shelter  find  and  rest. 

REBECCA. 

(Musing.)     Her  eyes  were  like  the  pools  of 

Hesebon 
That  mirrowed  her  sad  soul. 

(Their  infant  begins  to  weep.) 
[94] 


THE  NATIVITY 

MATTHIAS. 

Lo,  here  thy  child 
Hath  need  of  thee,  and  of  thine  every  thought. 

REBECCA. 
He  sickens,  yea,  his  eyes  begin  to  blur. 

MATTHIAS. 

His  temples  burn ;  it  is  some  malady 
Of  sudden,  unknown  power. 

REBECCA. 

Give  me  the  child ; 
Fetch  thee  yon  herbs  medicinal  and  oil. 

MATTHIAS. 
His  eyes  are  fixed;  how  his  bosom  lifts! 

REBECCA. 

O  God  of  Jacob,  leave  us  still  our  son. 
(The  infant  dies.     There  is  much  lamenting.) 


[95  1 


THE  NATIVITY 


SCENE  II 

The  stable.  Midnight.  Mary  and  Joseph, 
with  shepherds  and  angels,  adoring  at  the 
crib. 

(Chorus  of  angels.) 

From  heaven  He  came, 
The  Eternal  Flame, 
To  fire  men's  hearts 
With  Love's  own  darts, 
To  conquer  sin 
And  mercy  win 
Of  God  above. 

Lo,  in  the  straw  — 
Near  may  ye  draw, 
For  God  is  weak 
That  ye  may  speak, — 
The  God  of  peace ; 
Let  earth's  war  cease  — 

Toward  men  good  will. 


[961 


THE  NATIVITY 

REBECCA. 

(Without.}     God    knows,    God    knows,    my 

heart  is  bleeding  sore; 

My  son  had  hardly  come  to  months  that  knew 
His  mother's  lips,  his  mother's  face  and  voice; 
Warm  with  my  kisses  slept  he,  in  an  hour 
Cold  in  mine  arms. 

But  she,  that  pilgrim  spouse, 
With  all  the  lights  of  mother  in  her  eyes, 
In  dewy  deeps  the  trembling  wistfulness 
Of  hopes  unfathomable, —  pleading  eyes, 
Ye  draw  me  from  the  shrouding  of  my  babe, 
For  she  hath  need  of  me.      (Entering  stable.) 
What  wondrous  light, 

What  music  is  there  here !     The  Mother,  ah, 
Her  Babe.     O  God,  stop  all  the  clocks  of  time 
And  never  ring  the  passing  of  this  hour ! 

JOSEPH. 
Woman,  thou  look'st  upon  the  face  of  God. 

REBECCA. 

I  saw  Him  in  His  Mother's  waiting  eyes, 
And  I  have  come  from  mine  own  babe's  stark 
form 

[97  1 


THE  NATIVITY 

With    swaddling    bands    I    never    may    need 
again. 

MARY. 

The  heart  of  Abraham  is  in  thy  breast. 
(Giving  her  the  cloths  that  were  around 
Jesus.) 

Lay  these  upon  thine  infant's  quiet  side, 
Sister,  that  hast  this  night  befriended  God. 

SCENE  III 

The  flight.  Night.  Near  the  house  of  Mat- 
thias and  Rebecca.  Enter  Joseph,  leading 
an  ass  upon  which  is  seated  Mary  with  the 
Child. 

JOSEPH. 

Ye  stars,  that  run  before  the  winds  of  heaven, 
Hide  in  the  frowning  cliffs  of  mountainous 

cloud ; 

Thou,  planet,  wimpled  as  a  maid,  with  light, 
Tell  not  our  steps ;  God's  finger  points  us  far ; 
The  way  is  His  who  is  the  Way.      (Lullaby 

on  the  air.) 

[  98  1 


THE  NATIVITY 

MARY. 

Soft,  listen! 
REBECCA. 

(Within,  singing.} 

Baby,  sleep,  my  babe; 

God's  own  night  is  o'er  us. 
Jesse's  rod  hath  flowered ; 

Heaven  opes  before  us. 
God  sleeps  as  thou  art  sleeping, 
While  angels  watch  are  keeping. 
Sleep,  sleep,  until  the  songful  dawn ; 
God's  day  is  here,  sin's  night  is  gone. 

MARY. 

Yet,  ere  another  westering  sun  his  way 
Hath  crimsoned,  earth  shall  lie  in  their  blood 

washed, 

The    sons   that   sleep    this   night   on    mother 
breasts. 

JOSEPH. 

This  woman's  child  hath  died  that  he  may  live, 
Romping  forever  in  the  fields  of  heaven. 
(They  pass  along.     Singly  the  stars  drop  out. 
The  moon  meets  a  cloud.     Rebecca's  lullaby 
dies  away  in  the  darkness.} 
[  99  1 


ODES 


A  HOSTING  OF  THE  GAEL 

Written  for  the  presentation  of  the  sword  of 
Gen.  Thomas  Francis  Meagher  to  the  University  of 
Notre  Dame,  which  already  possessed  the  flag  of 
the  Irish  Brigade. 

THIS  is  a  marriage  feast  today, 

A  wished  anniversary 

Of  union  and  reunion;  Emmet,  Meagher,  all 

True  sons  of  Irish  blood  for  honor  dead, 

With  lifted  head, 

Hearken  to  this  most  jocund  muster  call ; 

Their  ships  are  on  the  sea, — 

From  ancient  Donegal 

They  come,  from  Kerry, 

Ah,  and  from  Tipperary, 

Yea,  rather,  say 

From  Dublin  to  Cathay, 

From  Belgian  battlefields,  from  Spain, 

From  snowed  Saskatchewan,  from  Afric  sand, 

From  Flodden  Field,  and  Fontenoy, 

From  every  field  and  every  land, 

Come  man  and  boy 

[  103  ] 


A  HOSTING  OF  THE  GAEL 

To  keep  with  us  this  day  a  sacred  trust, 

For  the  earth  is  starred  with  work  of  Irish 

brain 

And  rich  with  Irish  dust. 
Behold,  of  heroes  hosting  here  today, 
In  the  farthest  fore 
Stand  men  whose  eyes 
Are  blue  and  gray 
Like  Irish  skies 
And  like  the  coats  they  wore. 

No  party  festival  of  North  or  South 

By  us  is  kept, 

And  on  our  mouth 

No  vaunting  of  a  single  patriot  name 

To  envied  fame; 

But  in  one  man  stands  glorified  the  race. 

Their  brow  we  grace 

With  crown  of  laurel  and  with  olive  leaf, 

And  in  proud  grief 

That  has  no  tongue  and  keeps  its  tears  unwept, 

We  greet  the  splendid  host  of  Irish  dead, 

Leaving  their  age-old  shroud, 

Gaunt  witnesses,  a  cloud, 

By  every  wind  increased, 

Ghostly  battalions  led  by  greater  ghosts 


A  HOSTING  OF  THE  GAEL 

That  round  us  troop,  with  measured,  noiseless 

tread  — 

O  God  of  Hosts, 
We  bid  them  welcome  to  our  marriage  feast. 

Should  any  answer  come 

Whence  stand  they  ranked  and  dumb? 

A  sudden  thunder  of  a  shout 

Their  throats  give  out 

As  if  these  long  dead  bones 

Yet  kept  remembrance  of  old  trumpet  tones; 

The  dense,  straight  ranks  are  stirred 

And  rises  one  great  word  — 

"  Fredericksburg  "  is  heard, 

While  comes  this  chorus  forth : 

"We  are  the  men  that  followed,  followed  after 
The  sun-bright   sword   and   the  sea-bright 

flag, 
With   a   faith    in   our   hearts   that    rose    like 

laughter 

Most  in  the  straits  where  the  craven  lag ; 
We  are  the  men  no  danger  daunted, 

Following  Freedom  like  a  star, 
Hot  after  glory,  honor-haunted, 
[  105  1 


A  HOSTING  OF  THE  GAEL 

With  our  flag  of  green  and  our  sworded 
Meagher. 

"  We  are  the  men  and  these  our  brothers 

Who  held  the  heights  and  threw  us  back ; 
Over  them,  too,  these  thousand  others, 

A  green  flag  waved  through  the  war  cloud 

black. 
And  Fredericksburg  is  an  open  story, 

It  was  Irish  blood  both  sides  outpoured, 
For  they,  too,  followed  honor  and  glory, 

A  green  flag  theirs,  but  not  our  sword. 

"  And  we  are  come  from  the  peace  of  slumber, 

Nor  North,  nor  South,  by  division  sharp, 
But  Irish  all,  of  that  world-wide  number 

In  all  times  mighty  with  sword  and  harp; 
To  lift  once  more,  from  the  dust,  our  voices, 

In  one  last  cheer  that  may  echo  far  — 
Fredericksburg  in  the  grave  rejoices, 

Now  the  Flag  of  Green  weds  the  Sword  of 
Meagher." 

So  sang  they,  pale  dead  men, 
Risen  from  their  cold  dream 
To  follow  still  the  Gleam; 
[  106  ] 


And  in  their  hollowed  eyes 

Were  what  with  mortals  pass  for  tears 

As  after  many  years 

They  saw  again  the  frayed  and  faded  fold 

That  was  their  Cloth  of  the  Field  of 

Gold; 

And  a  flash  as  of  a  star 
When  they  saw  the  shining  length 
Of  the  blade  that  in  his  strength 
Girt  the  dauntless  Meagher. 
Lo!  flag  and  sword  together  pressed, 
By  all  their  eyes  caressed. 
Then  like  a  breath  of  prayer 
They  melted  on  the  air. 

Learn  we  from  these  our  dead 

The  meaning  of  this  day, 
And  be  not  lightly  led 

From  our  fathers'  way. 
Not  what  our  hands  may  hold  — 
Few  threads  of  green  and  gold 
And  storied  steel  — 
Not  by  these  tokens  may  we  feel 
Sons  of  our  laurelled  sires, 
Save  that  the  same  pure  fires 
Burn  all  our  souls  within, 
[  107  ] 


A  HOSTING  OF  THE  GAEL 

And  heart  to  heart,  the  quick  heart  to  the  dead, 

be  kin. 

Keep  we  the  Faith  sword-bright 
By  day,  by  night, 
Our  fathers'  itieed  shall  never  suffer  loss 

But  know  increase. 
The  sword  itself  is  likened  to  the  cross 

That  is  our  peace. 


[  108  ] 


ODE :     FOR  INDIANA  DAY,  PANAMA- 
PACIFIC  INTERNATIONAL 
EXPOSITION 


PRELUDE  —  To  CALIFORNIA 

WHO  saw  thy  sunrise,  Woman  of  the  West  ? 

For,  Empress  of  the  lands  of  dying  day, 
With  all  time's  sunsets  buried  in  thy  breast, 

Thou  hadst  such  dawn  as  can  not  pass  away: 
To  sing  of  that  fair  hour  is  there  not  one, 

0  Mistress  of  the  mansions  of  the  sun  ? 
Not  all  unwarranted  I  come  this  day 

Which  sees  far-sundered  strands 

In  their  united  waters  joining  hands, 

And  cheek  to  cheek  Atlantic  to  Pacific  lay. 

1  of  a  State  that  has  for  tide 

The  coming  and  the  going  of  the  corn, 
Some  borrowings  of  pride 

Bring  to  this  jocund  morn. 
When  down  thy  washen  flanks  the  daylight 

broke 
Through  ancient  night,   a  newer  life  and 

law, 

Barefooted  men  in  brown  — 
And  earlier  the  blackgown  — 

[  in  ] 


PRELUDE— TO  CALIFORNIA 

The  promise  of  a  day  that  would  not  set 
For  thee  bespoke, 
And  their  life  saw  — 

A  glory  that  the  world  can  not  forget  — 
The  flowering  and  the  fruitage  of  a  toil 

Whose  harvest  was  of  hearts  not  less  than 

wine  and  oil. 
O  Feet,  that  tread  the  purple  grapes  of  day 

Until  that  wine 
Thy  seas  a  thousand  leagues  incarnadine; 

Thou  that  hast  kept,  how  many  ages  old, 
The  tollgates  of  the  sun,  and  toll  and  gate  are 

gold; 
Arms  that  thou  holdest,  prophet-like,  on  high 

Till  in  thy  daily  sky 

A   victory   for   the   sun    is   writ   in   conquest 
flame, — 

Seek  not  my  passing  name 
But  know 

That  even  as  those  sons  of  long  ago, 
Thine  earliest-born,  the  vanward  of  thy  sires, 

Who  found  and  kept  thy  wilderness  a  rose, 
Far-blushing  to  Sierra's  silvering  snows, — 
That  so  am  I, 

Moulded  and  quickened  by  the  selfsame  fires, 
Minstrel  and  pilgrim  of  the  sky, 


PRELUDE— TO  CALIFORNIA 

Whose  singing  were  the  night  winds  in  the 

grass 
Which  no  one  heeds, 

Except  it  were  of  more  than  mortal  deeds, 
And  memories  that  shall  not  pass, 

And  men  that  can  not  die. 


[  »3  1 


ODE :  PANAMA,  THE  MASTERY  OF  MAN 

Text  of  the  rolling  years  that  who  shall  scan ! 
Handwriting  of  a  day  that  knew  no  sun, 
Rich  palimpsest,  through  whose  full  lines 

appear 

The  records  of  an  earlier  day  fordone : 
Writing   in   stone,    a   future   deed    God 

wrought 
And  folded  it  away  until  the  year 

When,    counting   all    our   yesterdays    as 

naught, 
His  creature,  Man,  partaking  of  His 

power, 
Should  read  that  purpose,  and  set  free 

the  hour 
Which  marks  completion  of  His  ancient  plan. 

For  there  has  been  a  Workman   great  and 

good: 

Fathom  on  fathom  laid  He  in  the  slime 
The    unbreached    links    that    chain    the 
world  in  one. 


ODE:  PANAMA,  MASTERY  OF  MAN 

He  made,  and  swung  the  pendulum  of  time, 
White  magic  at  His  word  grew  gathered 

light; 
What  golden  jungle  could  have  laired  the 

sun? 

He  saw  the  Day  upon  the  brow  of  Night 
Lay  the  first  kiss  that  trembled  into 

stars : — 

Here  opening  pleasances,   there  set- 
ting bars, 
The  Worker  in  His  power's  plenitude. 

What  lesser  Being  could  have  sired  the  sea 
Whose  waters  prove  him  nursling  of  the  sky, 

Finding  his  cradle  in  the  various  earth, 
The  ocean's  hollow  or  the  cowslip's  eye, 

But  ever  passing  up  and  down  a  stair  — 
Procession  of  continual  rebirth  — 

The  silken  ladder  of  the  sunbeams'  hair: 
Behold  the  sea,  how  hath  the  mother- 
ing moon 
Some  lullaby  for  him  that  she  doth 

croon 
While  slumbering  his  breast  heaves  peacefully. 


[  »5  1 


ODE:  PANAMA,  MASTERY  OF  MAN 

Who  zoned  the  worlds  with  greater  worlds  of 

air, 

A  trackless  footing  where  the  lightnings  run, 
The  day's  broad  rampart  and  its  rendez- 
vous 
Since  chaos  first  was  raided  by  the  sun, — 

Titanic  battles  that  have  left  no  scar 
On  all  the  frontier  of  its  quiet  blue 

Where  soar  our  winged  ships:  the  sentry 

star 

That  sees  them  sudden  rise,  then  dis- 
appear, 
To  all  their  challenging  but  answers, 

"  Here 
Is  empery  that  God  may  not  forswear." 

Not  from  the  star- veined  heavens  comes  our 

gold, 

Nor  in  the  flashing  skies  is  struck  our  fire, 
Doth  any  field  of  sunset  give  us  bread  ? 
Swollen    with    pride    and    loud    with    vain 

desire, 
Of  old  men  were  who  vowed  assault  on 

heaven, 

Threatening  with  trowelled  hand  the  day- 
spring's  head : 


ODE:  PANAMA,  MASTERY  OF  MAN 

And  Babel's  very  tongue  is  perished  even, 
The  sun  shines  down  a  mockery  of 

their  pain 
And  there  is  laughter  of  them  in  the 

rain, — 
The  earth  is  our  inheritance,  behold! 

The  earth  that  is  the  sister  of  the  sea, 

The  earth  that  is  the  daughter  of  the  stars, 
The  mother  of  the  myriad  race  of  men : 
Gaze  with  Columbus  over  ocean  bars, 

Drink  with  Balboa  in  thy  thirsting  eye 
The  waters  that  he  quaffed  on  Darien, 
With  them  turn  homeward,  loaded  with 

new  sky: 
Catch,  if  thou  mayest,  the  lightning 

of  the  gleam 
That  crowns  their  brow  of  continents 

a-dream, 
And  thou  hast  neighbored  immortality. 

Thy  conquest  is  the  taking  of  the  world, 
The  world  that  is  and  can  not  be  but  good 
Since  God  first  looked  upon  His  labors 
done. 

[   "7  1 


ODE:  PANAMA,  MASTERY  OF  MAN 

Canst  thou  forget  Whose  awful  Feet  have 

stood 

Even  as  Man  upon  the  strand  of  time? 
The  Orient  He,  but  till  the  West  is  won, 
The  furthest  footing  of  the  utmost  clime, 
His  message  has  a  meaning  and  His 

law 

Compulsion  of  obedience  and  awe 
In  Whom  the  racial  destiny  is  furled. 

Westward  and  farther  west  till  west  is  east, 
The  oar,  the  spur,  the  spade,  the  axe,  the 

cross, 

Humanity  and  Christ  move  onward  one. 
And  be  it  counted  to  mankind  for  loss 

If  on  this  day  no  word  be  said  or  sung 
For  him  who  took  the  highways  of  the  sun, 
A  pilgrim  scrip  about  his  shoulders  flung, 
Glad  robber  of  the  roads  that  lead 

to  death, 

Who  stole  men's  souls,  unto  his  lat- 
est breath, 
Conquistador  for  God,  the  mission  priest. 

Ye  men  for  whom  our  bannered  song  is  flung, 

Whose  muscles  have  a  magic  that  the  sea 

[  118  ] 


ODE:  PANAMA,  MASTERY  OF  MAN 

And  earth  obey,  yours  is  the  conqueror's 

mind. 
Ye  are  the  sons  of  olden  chivalry, 

Yea,  ye  are  sons  of  that  high  lineage 
Whose  records  written  in  the  rock  ye  find  ; 
Ye  are  the  sons  of  Him,  the  Primal  Mage, 
Whose  might  in  yours  has  wrought 

till  Panama 
Outrolls  the  latest  workings  of  the 

Law 

Whose  earliest  deeds  the  stars  of  morning  sung. 
Then  let  the  morning  and  the  night  as  one, 
Let  East  and  West  and  all  the  lands  be- 
tween, 
North  worlds  and  south  together  find  a 

voice 
Acclaiming  what  this  day  our  eyes  have  seen. 

Until  the  heavens  are  folded  like  a  tent 
Will  all  the  thoughts  of  coming  time  rejoice 
Our  swords  were  into  yeoman  plowshares 

bent, 

And  while  this  year  on  half  the  na- 
tions fell 
The  lightnings  and  the  cursing  rains 

of  hell, 

The  last  great  wonder  of  the  world  was  done. 
[  "9  ] 


POSTLUDE:     (To  INDIANA'S  POET, 
JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY.) 

Lo,  o'er  the  fields  at  home  now  sinks  the  sun, 
And  with  the  crickets'  hum 
The  tinkling  bells  of  cattle  homeward  come 

Familiar  tell 
The  dim,  tired  land  another  day  is  done. 

And  my  song  pauses  for  a  last  fare- 
well 

To  you,  and  greeting  unto  one 
Whose  ears 

Have  caught,  how  many  happy  years, 
The  murmurs  of  the  music  of  our  speech, 
Whose  tongue 

Our  simple  days  with  kindred  art  has  sung, 
And  kept  a  silence  where  no  word  could  reach. 
Him  by  whose  Brandywine 
First  strayed  in  childhood  days  these  feet  of 

mine, 

Brother  and  friend, 

I  hail  him  as  our  State's  sufficient  pride 
And  give  him  part  — 


POSTLUDE 

Whose  words,  deep-springing  from  a  people's 

heart, 

Home-gathered  there  abide  — 
In  glories  of  a  day  that  has  its  end, 
As  has  at  length  the  lingering  song  of  one 
Who  brought  his  dreams  to  thee,  O  City  of  the 
Sun! 


THE    END 


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